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  Back inside, Anastasia chopped the leaves, then wrapped them around Des’ legs while he lay on her bed. He closed his eyes, the wedding echoing through his mind like a series of unattached visions.

  Seized with excitement, Des bolted upright.

  “What is wrong?” Anastasia asked him, concerned.

  Des remembered the Spanish words in the museum, on the door of the locked room and realized what the piled kegs inside contained.

  It’s not grog in those kegs. If it were rum, it would be gone.

  Des leaped off the bed, the leaves scattering to the floor. “Ask Itar to meet me at the museum.”

  “When?” Anastasia asked.

  “Now. Yesterday—two days ago. Tell him there is no time.”

  He slipped past Bethenna, who had appeared in the doorway.

  “Alée!” Des shouted outside.

  She came immediately, her war club ready.

  “Follow me. We are going to kick ass.”

  “What is ‘kick ass?’”

  “Brutalize the beasts, chew them up.”

  Alée hurried beside him. “We eat beasts?” she asked with an expression of distaste.

  Des followed the path to the museum’s massive door and stopped. It was wide open and there was no guard outside.

  Inside, the blowgun display was empty, the museum completely silent. The three locks still secured the inner room’s door, so Des would need to break them if there were no keys. Opposite the padlocks were heavy metal hinges with pins splayed and sealed. It would be nearly impossible to remove the pins to open the door and keep the locks intact.

  Des pulled on the door, then pushed. The locks rattled and black dust billowed from around the wooden doorframe. He examined the middle lock, then yanked on it; there was no movement.

  “Na, na, na, na, na!”

  The museum curator swooped in from nowhere to stand in front of the door, as though protecting a helpless child.

  “Move!” Des ordered her in Anasazi. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and partly withdrew the blade.

  “Ah?” The curator swallowed hard, her eyes fearful.

  Des wouldn’t attempt to break the locks before Itar arrived, so he sheathed his sword. He peered through the opaque glass window and saw that the kegs were still inside.

  He wanted to reexamine the hieroglyphics drawn on the inner sanctuary walls. He removed a lit torch from its wall sconce and headed towards the hidden room, followed by both Alée and the curator.

  The torchlight dimmed in the rock passageway. Des heard dripping water. The ovoid stone hadn’t been reset to cover the entrance.

  He inspected the wall, as well as the covered crystal skull. He had glanced at one mural; before now, he wanted to reexamine it. He saw the Earths and moved past them. He waved the torch low and illuminated the men chained together, looking gaunt; they were being beaten by beasts. There were stick figures and a white man holding a cup. Des waved the torch higher, then froze.

  The pastoral setting he saw was unmistakably this new land. The sand painting depicted three horses grazing in a grassy meadow. A woman sat on the back of a fourth horse and watched.

  “Des?” Anastasia called from the darkened corridor.

  Des hurried past the curator with Alée close behind him.

  Itar’s guards had set down his palanquin, the sides of which were draped in ecru cloth. Des placed the torch in its wall sconce as Itar’s bare feet emerged. Itar pushed back the cloth, breathing heavily. His face was thin, his belly bulbous. Des was surprised by Itar’s ill appearance; his condition had apparently worsened.

  “I know what’s in the locked room. It can kill beasts,” Des said without preamble.

  “It can kill everyone,” Itar replied.

  “Yes, I understand, but I can control it. Please, help me open that door.”

  Itar said softly to the museum curator, “Asa bui á tupo.”

  “Na, na, na, na, na!” She was infuriated.

  Des put his hand on his sword. “Abba, asa bui á tupo. Boose, boost!”

  She turned and walked away, babbling incessantly. Des wasn’t sure if she would return.

  Three minutes passed before she did from the rear of the museum, still mumbling to herself as she handed a key ring to Itar. The ring had more than twenty keys attached. They appeared to be brass and without rust or decay.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Itar said, handing the keys to Des.

  “I hope so, too,” Des replied.

  He worked his way through them and unlocked two of the padlocks, but none of the keys fit the lowest lock—its tumblers had rusted. With the flat of his sword, Des struck the padlock twice sharply. It sprung open.

  As Des laid the key ring on the floor with the locks next to them, the curator wrinkled her mole-covered nose at him.

  Itar said, “You are sure…”

  Des said, “Absolutely. I wouldn’t endanger all of us.”

  When he heaved the door slightly ajar, black dust billowed around him. He looked at Itar, who motioned for Des to continue. The old woman did likewise—in double time.

  Des knuckled onto the door where the locks had been and pulled. Alée was now heaving, too. He heard a gentle hiss as air escaped, then the door swung wide open.

  The chamber was dark, so Des waited just inside for his eyes to adjust.

  Alée walked to the burning torch and lifted it from its sconce. She stood by the wall as Des moved deeper into the antechamber.

  The elongated room was larger than Des had imagined. Literally hundreds of kegs filled its interior.

  Des pierced the side of one with his sword. When the contents streamed out, he let it run through his fingers. The black powder was dry. Coils of fuses were tied to the walls with hemp twine; in the rear of the darkened room were more fuses piled on squat tables.

  The room lightened. Des whipped around to see Alée standing in the doorway with a torch in her hand. The bone-dry timbers above her head were impregnated with centuries of gunpowder dust; they began to sizzle and pop.

  “Noooo!” Des screamed, running at her. He tackled her midriff, and they both fell to the museum floor outside the room. The torch skidded away from her hand as the doorway burst into flame.

  Des scrambled to his feet. The curator picked up the torch, her face aghast.

  “Water!” Des screamed. “Itar, aqua, quickly!”

  The doorjambs were now in flames, and the fire was jetting towards the black powder spilled on the chamber’s floor.

  “Itar, aqua, or we’re all dead!” Des shouted.

  Itar spoke tersely. His guards hurried to the Foods of the Earth display for the filled water vases.

  Des saw Anastasia running away. The lit torch had disappeared with the curator. The guards were heaving the vases towards the burning doorframe.

  Des went back inside through the flames. The room was filled with smoke, choking him. He tore off his tunic and held it over his face. With watering eyes, he separated the burning powder from that still untouched. Suddenly, a water vase appeared in the doorway. Des soaked his tunic in it and wrapped a torn piece around his hand. Through the doorway flames, he could see Anastasia with blankets in her arms. He dropped to his hands and knees and started wetting the floor. When his tunic dried, he plunged it into the water.

  Then everything went dark. For an instant, Des thought he had passed out, but he could still see flames in some areas of the floor, so he continued to extinguish them. When only darkness surrounded him, he burst out through the wet-blanketed doorway and lay wheezing and coughing on the floor.

  When his convulsive breathing had subsided, he looked up at Itar.

  Des coughed, “If this baby had blown, it would have taken out the whole side of the mountain and the whole village would have been destroyed by mudsl
ides.”

  Itar said in a fatherly tone, “Is that not what is written on the door?”

  Des patted down the doorway for the third time to make sure the wood was cool. The others had already swept up the remaining gunpowder and sealed it in urns. Des inspected the room until he was satisfied. He closed the door, locked it with the two remaining padlocks and tied the keys to his belt.

  He found Itar reclining in his palanquin.

  “Itar, what about horses?”

  “Horses?”

  When Des whinnied like a horse, Itar smiled at the onomatopoeia.

  “I want to know if anyone has horses, how many they have, and who can ride them.”

  Itar grinned. “Horses,” he said with finality.

  Chapter 33

  T-minus (10:05:22:58)

  Mallory sat at a small desk in the Chinook’s Edmonton hangar. He caught Crow’s eye and crossed his fingers.

  Mitch watched the stocky, black sergeant return the gesture. The rest of the crew was already onboard.

  Mallory turned on the phone’s intercom. A woman finally answered. It had taken more than a minute for anyone to pick up.

  “Lieutenant Mallory calling for Lieutenant McNally,” Mallory said, his tone businesslike.

  Mitch knew his plan hinged on the next few moments. He heard the woman say, “Mike. Mike, telephone.”

  A sleepy voice responded, “Who would be calling me in the middle of the night? It’s 0331.”

  “Lieutenant Mallory,” the woman told him.

  “What? Ah, oh.” Then he said into the phone, “Hello.”

  “Hey, Mike, we fixed the engine.”

  “Mallory, can’t this wait until morning?”

  “No, it can’t. I have my orders.”

  Mike’s voice became more alert. “You have orders for what?”

  “To leave as soon as the engine is fixed. It’s fixed, so I just need you to call the tower and give us clearance to fly.”

  “You have orders to leave at 0332?”

  Mitch knew that this lieutenant of the Royal Canadian Air Force could get them off the ground at any hour.

  Mallory said, “That’s why they call it the service, sir.”

  “Gee, won’t you wait until I can see you off?”

  “I’d rather not, sorry. This has been a strain, with the mission being scrubbed, and the men are anxious to go home.”

  There was a pause before McNally replied. “I can’t get anybody over there to help you.”

  Mallory crossed fingers on both hands, holding the receiver against his ear with his shoulder.

  “Not a problem, Mike. We’ve got a tractor here and a man who can run it. He can put our bird onto the square, then stow the tractor in the hangar. Thanks, anyway.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Yes, it has. Hold on.” McNally spoke to someone else. “Lieutenant McNally here. The American Chinook has my permission to leave asap.” After a pause, he continued, “Hey, they’re Americans,” then said to Mallory, “Good luck.”

  After hanging up, Mallory told Crow, “Get on the tractor, we’re out of here.”

  The hangar doors whirred open. Mitch and Mallory latched the helicopter and Crow tugged it outside slowly.

  “I’m dousing the lights,” Mallory called over the whine of the tractor.

  Crow pulled the helicopter to a white circle on the tarmac where Mallory unhitched it. The sergeant returned the vehicle to the hangar, then hopped aboard the chopper as the rotors began to turn.

  Mitch, Mallory, Crow and three other crewmembers were crowded into the cockpit behind the seated pilot and copilot.

  “Control tower to CH47E, military aircraft.”

  “This is CH47E. I read you loud and clear,” the pilot replied.

  The loudspeaker crackled. “Control tower to CH47E. I have you cleared for takeoff in ten—that’s one, zero minutes—and begin heading nine, zero...” As the voice continued, everyone cheered and Mallory sighed with relief.

  “One moment, CH47E. I have a hold. Do you copy? I have a hold.” Mallory looked up at the loudspeaker. “What the...?”

  “I copy,” the pilot said calmly.

  Everyone else tensed as minutes passed.

  The speaker crackled. “CH47E, we have a power failure in your area. No lights, no lift.”

  “CH47E to tower. We carry our own power,” the pilot said.

  The copilot switched on all of the exterior helicopter lights.

  “One moment, please. I still have a hold,” the tower voice said.

  Mallory hit the back of the pilot’s chair. “What now?”

  The pilot told the controller, “I copy that, but we have a defined timetable. This is a military flight.”

  “I copy.” Again, silence. “I’m sorry, CH47E, I do not have your flight plan.”

  The pilot removed his headset earpiece and turned towards Mallory with a shrug.

  Mallory said, “Tell him that Lieutenant McNally has the flight plan and if he’ll call him at home, he can fax it over.”

  The pilot replied, “No way is he going to call an officer at this hour.”

  Mallory smiled. “That’s his problem, not ours. By the time they’ve reconnoitered, we’ll be gone.”

  Five minutes passed, then the controller radioed, “CH47E, you are cleared for takeoff in three minutes.”

  The Chinook rose to altitude, circled and headed due south.

  Mallory instructed his pilot to arc eastward, then head north.

  Mitch watched Mallory greet Fishand on the aft ramp of the Chinook that had landed in Pelly Bay, and was surprised at the completeness of the helicopter’s transformation. On the white fuselage in red, block letters was “Boster Denton, Inc.” Below in quotes, was “Save the Whales, Save the Earth.”

  Mallory was chewing gum and wearing a baseball cap, Hawaiian shirt, shorts, white socks and sandals. Next to Mallory stood Crow with his baseball cap on backwards, wearing a muscle shirt and baggy pants. Mitch was at the top of the helicopter ramp.

  “How-dee,” Mallory said, chewing furiously, his hand extended.

  Fishand focused on the helicopter’s logo as he shook Mallory’s hand.

  “My name is Fishand. Are you in charge?”

  “Yup, I’m your man. Mallory’s the name.”

  Two large Inuits followed Fishand up the ramp. Mitch recognized them as the guards he had encountered at the courthouse.

  Mallory grinned and motioned towards Crow. “And this is Ser...Crow.”

  Crow nodded, no handshake. Fishand didn’t volunteer the names of his guards.

  “I’m here to inspect the ship,” Fishand announced, lisping.

  “Sure thing, buddy,” Mallory said. He put his arm around Fishand’s shoulder and led him forward.

  Fishand’s men stood inside idly while Fishand paced.

  “First, some ground rules,” he said.

  “You betcha,” Mallory replied affably.

  “Your crew cannot leave the aircraft while it’s here. Nothing new is to be brought onboard except Bearters, and Mitch will remain at his motel until you depart. You will be watched twenty-four hours a day. Do you understand?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “No weapons of any kind are allowed.”

  Mallory had a .45 under his armpit; in fact, they were all armed. “Firearms are against company policy,” he agreed.

  “If I find anything suspicious,” Fishand lisped, “then your clean-up mission will be scrapped, you go home, and I keep the check. However, you are to wait until the funds are deposited in an Inuit bank account, no matter how long that may take. Understood?”

  “Ten-four, buddy.”

  “Now, I inspect,” Fishand said.
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  Mallory nodded. “Follow me.”

  Sergeant Crow stayed close to Fishand, while Mitch moved behind the following Inuit guards. If Operation Scorpion soured at this juncture, the Inuits would be overtaken—by force, if necessary—and rolled to the tarmac below. The helicopter would become airborne within seconds, and Mallory would not send the encrypted code to transfer the million-dollar fund to the Inuit account.

  “I see on your aircraft that you are opposed to whaling,” Fishand said conversationally.

  Mitch had discovered that Fishand not only knew a lot about whaling, but was the focus of an international investigation concerning illegal hunting, so this information had been integrated into his plan.

  Mallory said, “We catch ‘em.”

  “Whales?” Fishand asked, surprised.

  “Hell, no. We catch anyone who is whaling illegally.”

  “How do you do that?” Fishand seemed genuinely interested.

  “I’ll show you,” Mallory said. “This little operation is a sideline. Our real mission is to catch whale hunters.”

  “Is that so? Tell me, what do you do with the whale hunters you catch?”

  “String ‘em up on the spot,” Mallory deadpanned. When Fishand winced, he added, “Ah, come on, buddy, just kidding.”

  The first cargo bay had empty floor space, and closed cabinets along the wall.

  “Unlock the doors,” Fishand commanded.

  “They ain’t locked.” Mallory motioned to Crow.

  Crow flipped open all the cabinet doors to reveal empty shelves.

  Fishand used a penknife to rap on the rear panels. Some sounded hollow.

  “What’s behind here?” he asked.

  “Why, you are a clever fellow,” Mallory said. “I’ve been around the world with those secret compartments, and no one else has ever found them.”

  Mitch didn’t know where the ammunition boxes and guns were hidden, but he saw Crow surreptitiously unbuckle the leather thong securing his hidden Bowie knife.

  “Go ahead, Crow. Show him the evidence,” Mallory said.

  Crow pressed against the wall. Machinery whirred as ten of the cabinets moved into the room, then rotated sideways, revealing an open area three meters tall by eight meters long. Cold air gushed from the cavity, which held only a stack of large plastic space blankets lying on the floor.